but not very vigorously. < ' Stop, I beg of you. If your parents were to see you? "
But he began to laugh :
" My parents! Oh! my parents, you know, â€” I have supped on them."
This was a phrase that he was continually using. "When one asked him anything, he answered : "I have supped on that. ' ' And he had supped on everything.
To gain a little time I asked him :
"There is one thing that puzzles me. Monsieur Xavier. How does it happen that one never sees you at Madame's dinners? "
" You certainly don't expect me, my dear . . . oh! no, you know, Madame's dinners tire me too much."
" And how is it," I insisted, " that your room is the only one in the house in which there is not a picture of the pope ? ' '
This observation flattered him. He answered:
"Why, my little baby, I am an Anarchist, I am. Religion, the Jesuits, the priests, â€” oh! no, I have enough of them. I have supped on them. A society made up of people like papa and mamma ? Oh ! you know . . . none of that in mine, thank you! "
Now I felt at ease with M. Xavier, in whom I found, together with the same vices, the drawling accent of the Paris toughs. It seemed to m